


The Absence of the Sun

by anactoria



Series: Days in the Light Of [3]
Category: Watchmen (2009)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Community: stagesoflove, Gen, M/M, Nuclear Warfare, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Adrian seems to have done is run around giving instructions (not <i>orders</i>, even now he wouldn't be that unsubtle, but people seem to obey unquestioningly anyway) and telling people they need to start working out what to do next-- as though there is going to be a future, as though he knows, as though he has any <i>right</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absence of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Third in a series of linked ficlets written for the stagesoflove challenge community on LJ in 2009. I originally claimed a prompt set for Adrian/Dan, but they don't actually end up together in this.
> 
> Prompt: Noon

It isn't even a real punch.

They're taking a shortcut through one of the shelter's back corridors. Alone, for once-- it's midday by the clocks, not that there's any other way of knowing the time of day in here, and anyone who isn't on duty or unconscious is probably eating lunch. Dan's stomach rumbles. He hopes there'll be something left to eat by the time they get to the mess hall.

Adrian doesn't seem bothered, though. Come to think of it, Dan hasn't actually seen Adrian stop to sit down and eat since he got here. Or sleep, either, though he must be exhausted, they're _all_ exhausted. Who could really rest in a place like this, crowded with the dispossessed and the desperate and the dying, not even knowing whether there's a world out there anymore, whether there's anything left worth waking up for in the morning? 

Dan's actually started to get used to the tiredness. It's a gray constant, with him even in the middle of the day, pressing down upon the center of his head and fading his thoughts out before they're finished.

But since the survivors have been cleaned up and bandaged, all Adrian seems to have done is run around giving instructions (not _orders_ , even now he wouldn't be that unsubtle, but people seem to obey unquestioningly anyway) and telling people they need to start working out what to do next-- as though there is going to be a future, as though he knows, as though he has any _right_. 

He's doing it right now, in fact, talking smoothly about Archie's capacity, the likely physical and mental state of any survivors, and how best to transport them back to the shelter.

And suddenly Dan can't stand it any more. He stops, dead.

"Will you please shut up?" he says. 

It comes out flat and weary, and Adrian actually has the gall to look offended, eyes wide and lips compressed, as though he's holding in a retort. But only briefly. Then his features compose themselves into something that looks like sympathy, and that's a hundred times worse.

"Dan," he says, gently, "I hardly think--"

Dan doesn't even put any thought into it. He strikes out blindly. There's nothing in the way of power or technique there, just anger bursting out like uncorked steam, and there isn't even the satisfaction of a real crack when the punch connects. But Adrian staggers back anyway, sags against the corridor wall and makes no effort to push himself back upright. 

For a second, Dan still feels like he's being patronized.

"What would you have me do?" Adrian says, then. "Give up?" His voice is still low and steady, but there's no pity there now, only sadness and-- something else. Relief?

"Just--" Dan trails off. Just what? Admit you were wrong? Say sorry? It all sounds so pathetic, given even a moment's thought. Apologies aren't going to change what's already happened, aren't going to rebuild the city, aren't going to bring back any of the people he's seen choke to death on their own blood out in the infirmary, or any of the ones who died before them, vaporized in a blinding instant last November.

Adrian's still looking at him. _At_ him, not through him like he has been for the past three days.

"I haven't forgotten," he says, very softly. And for a minute then he does look tired, helpless and sort of faded, like somebody in a sepia photograph.

Dan just nods, feeling small and petty and stupid all of a sudden, not even managing to be pissed that Adrian can still do that to him.

"Come on," he says, and holds out his hand.

* * *

Adrian does go to bed, that night. Or, rather, plucks a blanket and a cushion off the communal pile and arranges them on the patch of floor beside Dan's in the makeshift sleeping-quarters.

Sometime shortly after midnight, Dan looks over at him. In this night that is no longer just the absence of the sun, his eyes are bright with tears.


End file.
